


Odds Against Us

by JennaCupcakes



Series: The Great Game [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bank Robber AU, Combeferre Knows Everything, M/M, enjolras is a very confused narrator, is that even a thing, there's also porn, yes also what you had for dinner last night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:03:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People say friends don't destroy one another. What do they know about friends?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Odds Against Us

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to speightdaysaweek, my faithful beta-reader. I also thank River for motivating me to actually finish this, and I thank all the people who commented on Gambling Man requesting a sequel. I mean, I probably would have done it anyway, but it means a lot to me.  
> (So the summary is from Game Shows Touch Our Lives by the Mountain Goats because I love them okay.)

The steel door sits heavily in front of him, perfectly slotted into the concrete wall, its surface smooth and unyielding and betraying no weak points or openings. The hatch is closed, Enjolras heard the distant thunder of it snapping shut, and in the half-light of the two emergency lamps he can see that there is a red sign above the door reading _locked_.

Enjolras is locked inside a steel vault, and he is distracted.

Well, he’s not really locked – Combeferre is outside, together with Joly, and they both have an eye on him through the camera that is hanging over his head, the faint whirring of its spinning pedestal barely audible over the air conditioning.

It’s been six days since the casino, Enjolras is painfully aware of that. He wakes up in the morning, and instead of checking his e-mails only checks the date and rolls onto his other side, willing the world in which he is not yet going out with Grantaire away for another few minutes before Combeferre comes to knock on his door and drags him out for planning sessions with the others. Enjolras knows they have bets on what’s wrong with him – Joly suspected cancer, Courfeyrac a government-induced drug and Jehan the lack of Keats in his life. They’re whispering, when they think he can’t hear them.

A siren blares, indicating that Enjolras’ first minute is already over, and he curses and begrudgingly goes to work. If Combeferre and Joly are watching him, the fact that he was spacing out will only give them more reason for concern.

He knows that the steel in front of him is without fault and will not give way. There is no lock in here that he can pick, and Feuilly is much better with picking electronic locks, anyway. But Enjolras knows the mechanics, and he knows that there are protocols and loopholes that he can use to his advantage.

Normally, a power cut would just seal the steel bolts shut, but there’s a trick including the air conditioning and protocols on emergencies where a human being is locked inside a vault like this, and Enjolras only has to find the three points where the alarm is wired before his second minute is over.

He moves along the walls of the vault slowly, knocking gently – the memory of that one time when he had tried that trick in a vault full of pressure sensors was still fresh in his mind – and listening for the dull thudding response his knuckles evict. Combeferre’s knowing smile flashes in his mind, because that’s what Combeferre does when Enjolras has an idea.

There’s a different sort of caress playing in his mind, though, and he knows he’s in trouble because the memory of Grantaire always serves right to derail his thoughts straight into territory where they’re not supposed to be, not locked in a steel vault with a task at hand. He can tell he’s missed the spot when there’s sudden silence as the camera stills triumphantly.

Even though there are no means of real communication, he can still read his friends.

He takes one, two steps back and tries again, and the sound that rings through the vault is dull and hollow.

He marks the spot with a pen from his astoundingly resourceful pockets and moves on, and the second and third spot are found faster because there are only so many different ways in which the alarms can be wired before it gets unnecessarily complicated.

Somewhere behind glowing screens, he is sure, Combeferre is making exasperated noises.

The siren sounds for the second time, and Enjolras sets to work faster, prying away plastic cases that lay bare wiring underneath, and there’s a pang of guilt where he has to dismantle the work what has cost Feuilly and Bahorel countless hours of sweat, but the training is _worth_ the effort, and so with one last grunt he rips away the cover and goes for the first wire.

Now, these sorts of panels are more complicated than most movies will have the average human believe, but Enjolras knows his way around them in his sleep. Cut one is the alarm – he leaves the camera because this is a training session and Combeferre knows damn well he could if he wanted to – cut two goes for the air conditioning and cut three induces the power cut.

Combeferre’s screen will be black for fifteen seconds before the emergency generator kicks in.

A faint whirr hums through the air as the system powers down and everything goes completely black. In an ideal world, an outside man would feed a looped tape to the screens to that the power cut in the vault would go by unnoticed, but there is no need for that now, Combeferre does want to see how Enjolras is doing, after all.

He is out of the vault before Combeferre’s screen is back online, and checks his phone before Courfeyrac can reach him to slap his back and congratulate him on his success.

_No messages to display._

—Ψ—

Now, as everybody knows, Enjolras is a fucking genius when it comes to choosing their next coup.

Which is why it comes as a surprise when Combeferre offers a suggestion.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, leaning forward over their heavy oak table in the big living room, “And it’s been a while since our last gig. It’s time to consider something new.”

They’ve spent hours at this table, mapping out conversations exactly like this, and the wood is etched with lines where they’ve drawn battle plans and intricate schemes, and they take a strange sort of comfort in blueprints and new coups coming together, but it’s never been anyone but Enjolras to initiate one.

They may share their power as equals, but they also know where their strengths lie. Enjolras strength is finding a target to hit.

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow, and then glances over at Enjolras, and that’s when Enjolras knows that he should have been paying attention. He’s heard the words, but he kind of went off on a tangent.

“Really?” Courfeyrac says, and there’s calculation in his voice as much as there is an underlying sense of amusement, “Because I have a feeling we’re taking things a bit slower these days.”

Combeferre, as Enjolras has to concede, doesn’t look nearly as amused as Courfeyrac, and that should have been the first warning sign. He leans forward, clear determination lined with glasses and the life of a perfect college student that never was, and fixes Enjolras with a hard gaze.

“I just want to make clear that we are still in business. That we’re all on the same page.” He leans back again and lets his gaze swoop over to Courfeyrac as well. Enjolras feels a tension bleed out of his shoulders, and then scolds himself for this silly notion, as if Combeferre was a parental authority whose reprimand he had to fear.

“It’s not exactly a clear thing yet, but I just wanted you to know that I will be working on something that could be evolving into a fully formed plan within the next week.”

Enjolras nods, and Courfeyrac nods, and they all go their separate ways.

—Ψ—

In his dreams, Enjolras walks through the casino.

It’s empty, and maybe he is scared because crowds can hide him, but here he is out in the open. He finds the table where he met Grantaire, traces the edge of heavy wood and follows their steps to the private room at the end of the big hall.

He hesitates in front of the door, every time, and in that split second gets this gut feeling that someone is standing behind him.

He turns around, and it’s Combeferre.

At this point, he always wakes up, and he cannot figure out what it means. All he knows is that he switches on the light on his nightstand, runs his fingers through his hair and goes to the big kitchen for a glass of water with a rising sense of unease in his stomach, and doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

Combeferre is impressed when Enjolras offers him a detailed rundown of what the cops have been up to in order to find them. He still sends him to Joly for a checkup because of the insomnia.

—Ψ—

Eight days, two hours and maybe thirty-six minutes after Grantaire and Enjolras parted ways in the casino, the latter’s ordeal is finally put to an end.

He is sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest in his room, going through his – highly amusing – police record when his phone lights up, and then scolds himself for the tap-dance his heart seems to be commencing when the capital R appears onscreen.

(He is not paranoid, it’s a fact that Combeferre checks his phone contacts every two weeks, it’s for their own safety.)

_getting lonely without you here. got any plans on Wednesday?_

Enjolras is delighted and stunned and at loss of words, and he holds the phone like it’s an artefact, a precious item to be worshipped, imagining Grantaire’s smile and shrug and quiet hope and then he pictures him moaning and whispering filthy words into Enjolras ear and he _absolutely cannot wait any longer_.

It’s pathetic how fast his resolve crumbled, though it is debatable if there even was any resolve to begin with.

_how about tomorrow?_

—Ψ—

Trying to get ready feels worse than preparing for anything else Enjolras has ever did, and he did a lot of things that are more illegal than going out with his not-quite-boyfriend.

“What do you think?”

He stares at his reflection in the mirror, and jumps when Feuilly opens the door.

“For God’s sake!”

Feuilly seems highly amused. “Did I interrupt you with something?”

Enjolras’ heart is almost tearing his way out of his chest, it’s beating so fast, and he doesn’t even have a proper reason, all he knows is that the others couldn’t know, _shouldn’t know_ , and then he feels guilty. He can’t remember the last time he has kept a secret from his friends.

Well, actually, he can, that had been Salt Lake City, but Combeferre had known and really, who would have wanted the others to worry about the cops when there was –

It doesn’t matter. Enjolras shakes his head resolutely. “No, come in. It’s okay.”

“Hm.” Feuilly doesn’t seem fooled, and coming to think of it, it is probably hard to miss the way Enjolras is dressed up. “Combeferre said he had some things to discuss tonight. Have you got time?”

Enjolras stops in his attempts to fix the shirt he is wearing to look at Feuilly. They met the carpenter two years ago, when they needed someone to build an exact replica of a safe they wanted to break in, and Feuilly had been the only one who didn’t seem bothered by the large sum of money and the suspicious instructions. And Feuilly stayed.

“Why didn’t he come himself?”

“He meant to.” Feuilly is still looking at him, and Enjolras has the uncomfortable feeling that maybe hiding that he was going out had been a bad idea, because how could he think he could lie to Feuilly, how could he ever, and to all of his friends as well, but then Feuilly shrugs and Enjolras’ shoulders sag. “I just told him I could ask you about your plans for tonight because I have to pick up your drawing pencils anyway.”

Enjolras nods. “They’re on the desk.”

Feuilly strides over to collect them, and Enjolras takes a quick second look at the mirror to straighten his hair.

“So...” Feuilly said when he was back at the door. “Are you coming?”

—Ψ—

Nine days, eighteen hours and seven minutes after the casino.

They’re sitting in a café, or a bar, and honestly, would it fucking matter, Grantaire is here and Enjolras himself is here and that is all that counts.

Well, that is, if he could make it count.

Enjolras is not afraid of many things.

He remembers being afraid when he saw Bahorel for the first time, the split-second in which he thought their plan had been discovered, and he remembers being afraid when he saw steel doors being closed on Combeferre and Courfeyrac being led away by the cops. They do dangerous things for a living.

Still, Enjolras has never encountered this particular brand of fear.

“So... what do you actually do for a living?”

Grantaire looks stunning.

Enjolras has been dealing with beautiful people for a while now, God knows he has, but their beauty was a loud and blatant show of colours and sound effects. Grantaire has more subtlety, and it’s all the more breathtaking for it.

He seems to prefer dark colours when he’s not required to wear the green casino waistcoat, and yes, Enjolras is really glad Grantaire isn’t wearing the waistcoat because there’s only so much self-control he can muster before he grabs Grantaire and drags him over the table to kiss him until he can breathe again. His black shirt compliments his dark curls and why is Enjolras even thinking that, he’s not the type to sigh and mutter sappy things in his head. He’s the type to knock out cops and lock them in security vaults he’s the type to enjoy seeing his name on several countries’ most wanted lists.

Moreover, he’s in need of an explanation.

“I’m a banker.”

The response is a running gag in their little gang, though they mostly go with ‘artist’ or something equally pretentious and vague when they’re out with other people. They’re in the banking business, most certainly, however. Enjolras knows how to sneak through that part of a conversation.

“Really?” Grantaire laughs. “Well, that explains the three-piece-suit and the brand clothing.”

“It’s not that bad!” Enjolras argues, vehemently attempting to quell that little voice of insecurity that speaks up inside his head, it’s very important to him what Grantaire sees him as, and anyway, he’s better than those assholes he’s taking money from.

Grantaire can’t stop laughing, a quiet giggling that just keeps on bubbling and bubbling out of his mouth. “You look like Hollister slapped you in the face with a bunch of clothes and then didn’t tell you what goes with what.”

Well, arguably, his fashion choices concerning casual clothes had never been the best. “Well...”

Grantaire shakes his head. “Come on, I’m not going to hold the way you dress against you, even if it’s pretentious and a bit ridiculous. I know that you look much better undressed anyway.”

Enjolras is trying not to blush. He really is trying. Combeferre always tells him he would probably try to move security vault doors with his mind if everything else failed, just out of the misplaced conviction that the world would bend to his will if he only tried hard enough.

Needless to say, he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks anyway. “You probably shouldn’t...”

“Say that in a public setting?” Grantaire shrugs, gleefully smiling at the blush spreading out on Enjolras’ face. “Maybe, but I’ve never been known to care.”

Enjolras thinks that professional bank-robber combined with nervous dater is probably the worst combination, because he is hyper-aware of his surroundings and still so focussed on Grantaire that every movement hurts, because he’s learnt to read people long ago, he can tell things from their movements and the way they hold themselves, he reads their insecurities and their passions and their thoughts, and everything about Grantaire screams _beautiful_.

“At this rate, they will throw you out of the restaurant before the starter.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Oooh, it’s that kind of a restaurant.”

Enjolras is blushing even harder as Grantaire snickers - Grantaire enjoys the teasing. Enjolras wishes he could tell him that this is not what he's like, he’s just a poor college kid with some odd talents who made some odd choices, but he can’t, he has to play along, he’s got a family to think of – _think of Combeferre and Courfeyrac and of the people that took you in you owe them their safety_ – even when Grantaire moves from teasing to talking to quickly to care.

“You wouldn’t mind, though, would you? Come on, you’re just _waiting_ to get out of here. Let me guess, your bed is king-size with a mattress softer than a baby’s ass.”

Enjolras can barely keep up, he’s just _looking_ at Grantaire and it’s _maddening_ , what is he supposed to say first, he wants to learn everything about Grantaire. He wants to learn how he came to work at a casino, he wants to ask about the story behind Grantaire’s scar on his left eyebrow, wants to find out about the small line of letters winding its way around both of Grantaire’s wrists, and he can’t believe he only just noticed them.

“I can promise that my mattress will be the least of your worries,” Enjolras replies, because that’s the one thing he’s certain about, he’s had plenty of time to plan, and he promptly forgets about all of his plans when Grantaire’s face comes alight with a blush of his own, it’s marvellous.

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“You know I’m not bragging.”

They just look at each other for a second, and then dissolve into a fit of helpless giggling. Grantaire has laughter lines around his eyes, and he seems to get lost in his laughter. Enjolras gets lost in looking at him.

“You’re unbelievable,” Grantaire manages to get out after trying to compose himself in vain for two times, he had to start right laughing again when he looked at Enjolras who could barely hold on to his straight face himself.

“I’ve been told.” Enjolras might not be laughing anymore, but he’s still smiling, how could he not when he’s looking at Grantaire.

Grantaire presses a hand to his mouth for a moment, shakes his head in disbelief. “I’m so glad you’re a really bad casual fuck.”

—Ψ—

They flirt through the starter, they argue all through dinner, and they can barely keep their hands off each other over dessert.

Enjolras can’t recall even blinking, he’s so mesmerised with Grantaire.

“Sooo...” Grantaire says lazily, pushing his empty pudding bowl away, and he hasn’t stopped smiling either, Enjolras is so proud of that, it might actually be his greatest achievement so far. “Do you want to go somewhere?”

Enjolras is saying yes, he is saying yes with all his heart, with his body, with everything he has, but there’s something, he knows it.

“Your place or my place?” he asks.

 _Your place or my place_ , the words taste strange, they echo in his head and he can’t quite believe this is real, and then he knows it can’t be real when his phone rings.

It feels like a punch in the gut.

“Excuse me,” he says, flushing bright red because now there’s a different kind of embarrassment, and he knows who’s calling, knows that maybe only five people on the planet have his number but the only one who would call him now...

“Hello, Combeferre.”

Grantaire doesn’t look irritated, but Enjolras knows how it must look, so he mouths _work_ and rolls his eyes a bit for show, and Grantaire seems a bit taken aback but not offended. _Not offended_ will have to do for the moment.

“I’m... out.”

He knows this is tricky territory, he doesn’t want to scare away Grantaire by making him think he’s ashamed of him, but he also really doesn’t want his friends to know, not even Combeferre. They all gave up a life and more for him. It would be cheating to try and steal his back, even though stealing is all he really knows how to do.

“The meeting is now?”

He glances at his clock, and his heart skips a beat in the not-so-nice way, and _now_ Grantaire is frowning and _great_ , Enjolras has managed to aggravate them both.

“Yes, _of course_ I was thinking of it!”

It’s one of these situations where he has to fight the urge to run headfirst into the wall because there’s no obvious way out, Combeferre always tells him he’s stubborn as a mule, but he can’t, not now. The choice is hard, but what matters is that he can still make it.

“I’ll be there right away.”

He hangs up, and he knows that Combeferre will at least suspect that something is up, that’s fine, he’ll have to be more careful the next time, maybe wipe a security tape or two, he’s not paranoid, but Grantaire is sitting in front of him and he doesn’t even look disappointed, just... resigned.

“Should’ve known when you said ‘banker’...” he says, “Money never sleeps, right?”

Enjolras has to be serious, just this one time, but –

“Really?” he says, “ _Wall Street_?”

He can suppress the laughter, and he regrets it because he has to tell Grantaire, tell him that he is important to Enjolras, but Grantaire is _impossible_ , he really is, Enjolras really wishes he didn’t have to go.

Grantaire shrugs, and there is a small smile, and Enjolras can breathe again because Grantaire knows and that is all he can do know.

“I need to go,” he says in a low whisper, leaning across the table and looking Grantaire straight in the eye, “A friend called me and he says they need me, and he’s done more for me than I can ever repay him, I need to be there for him.”

“A friend?” Grantaire asks, “I thought you said _work_.”

“We work together,” Enjolras explains, and that’s the truth, though work makes it sound so frustratingly resigned to one aspect of his life. He wishes it were that way, just this once, just tonight.

“You must be very close,” Grantaire says and he gets up with Enjolras. Enjolras puts the bills on the table before Grantaire can, he doesn’t care about money, he cares about Grantaire and he takes Grantaire’s hand before the other can pull away. Grantaire’s hand is warm, it feels real and Enjolras needs so much more contact right now, but he also needs to go.

“We are,” he says, still looking at Grantaire and then he leans forward and kisses Grantaire, and God forbid, how is he ever supposed to stop, Grantaire is warmth and comfort and a world-stopping desire that makes Enjolras’ heart beat frantically, fuck, he can’t pull away.

It’s Grantaire who pulls away. “Goodbye.”

He lets go of Enjolras’ hand, zips up his jacket and leaves, and Enjolras wonders if he is even half as close to Combeferre as he made Grantaire believe.

—Ψ—

Nine days, twenty-two hours and sixteen minutes after the casino.

They’re having a meeting in the kitchen.

“My plan is getting somewhere,” Combeferre says, and it’s telling that he still refuses to share details, he is thorough with his research and he doesn’t do things by half, never. Jehan is there, too, which means they’re probably in need of floor plans and such. He is that librarian you wouldn’t let your kids go near, with hair that goes over his shoulders and is almost never brushed, horn-rimmed glasses making him look like he’s well on his way to forty and dressing like he intends to become a scarecrow in the near future. But he’s also employed by the government, and the computer of a government-employee is all he needs to get to everything their little band of misfits could want.

Enjolras wasn’t aware that they already needed floor plans. He isn’t completely out of the loop, but he sure has some catching up to do.

“Enjolras, normally I would ask Feuilly to do this, because he’s our technical man, but if you could have a look at the security company...”

Combeferre hands him a folder, and for a moment they lock eyes and Enjolras’ heart sinks because Combeferre _knows_ about Grantaire, of course, how could Enjolras have hoped to keep this a secret from Combeferre, that was stupid and childish of him, but then Combeferre’s eyes dart down to the folder and Enjolras follows his gaze and... _oh_.

Combeferre doesn’t let go of the folder when Enjolras freezes – _the first time he sees that name since Courfeyrac took his ID to feed it to the flames, he should have salted the ashes and thrown them to the wind_ – which is probably for the better, because Enjolras has to use his grip on the folder to steady himself. This time, he meets Combeferre’s gaze tentatively, and understands the concern in Combeferre’s eyes.

“I know their systems are your specialty,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras is grateful, he is _so, so_ grateful, because not even Courfeyrac knows the details of this fiasco and their first coup, back then it was just him and Combeferre and _oh_ , he needs a little privacy right now, a talk with Combeferre and he needs the details, Combeferre wouldn’t simply choose a target related to this name when it wasn’t unavoidable. Something is off.

Something is off, but Jehan and Courfeyrac are in the room, and Combeferre lets go of the folder and clasps his arm in a brief, reassuring grip.

“We’ll talk about your findings later. Courfeyrac, a word, I need you to set up a path for the money to go as soon as we have it...”

The two of them stride out of the kitchen, Jehan trailing behind, and Enjolras stays, looking at a folder and a name and it feels like they’re burning in his hands, still burning, he should have thrown the ashes to the wind.

—Ψ—

Ten days, two hours and thirty-six minutes after the casino.

Enjolras is nervous and jittery, and he needs to call Grantaire.

The folder sits on his desk, unopened, because no matter how hard he tries he just _can’t_. It’s all tied together somehow – Grantaire, Combeferre’s strange behavior, the folder and his old name, it’s all slipping from his grasp because no matter how hard he tries, he can’t put the pieces together and in turn he’s losing his own game.

 _Once we’re in, we’re in_ , Combeferre had said, and they’d just been two boys scared by their own abilities, _it’s like playing dice_.

 _I’ll make sure the house won’t win_ , Enjolras had replied. He made the decision that day, and he owes Combeferre more than one point five million in cash for it. He owes him to live up to the choice he made. Combeferre never once let him down.

Enjolras has to call Grantaire.

He dials, and his fingers are clumsy and shaking and that short from missing the keys, but he manages, he doesn’t know how, but he does. The phone is pressed to his ear harder than necessary, and then there’s a click and Grantaire’s voice and relief washes over him like a fucking _wave_ , this is what he needed.

 _It’s like playing dice_.

“Enjolras!”

Grantaire sounds groggy but delighted, a breathless whisper that knocks the air straight out of Enjolras lungs and it might seem an odd combination– then again, he spends nights in that odd state between awake and passing out from exhaustion until the pieces shift in front of him and his mind unlocks doors before they open for him days later, he works best when he hasn’t slept in days – and he seems to be shifting in bed, at least the phone drops away for a heartbeat and Enjolras is deprived off the sound of Grantaire breathing until he comes back.

“How can I be of assistance?”

To be honest, Enjolras hasn’t planned much further than this, there wasn’t anything beyond the very simple need to hear Grantaire’s _voice_ , and now he is stupefied.

“Hey,” he replies.

He can hear Grantaire chuckling at the other end of the line. “Hello.”

It’s always a game to him, Enjolras realises, flirting with Enjolras and taking him out for dinner and now indulging his strange habits at nearly two am, he enjoys every twist and turn of this very, _very_ twisted fairytale, and Enjolras just wants it to stop.

“I’m sorry for cutting our date short,” he says, because he likes to solve problems and right now his life is one stinking pile of shitty problems and this is the only one he can bear to solve – everything else is large and terrifying and more than Enjolras ever bargained for, but Grantaire... Grantaire is the nice kind of challenge.

“You don’t have to apologise,” Grantaire replies, and Enjolras can hear him shifting again, he pictures him sitting up with a serious expression on his face – he also pictures him shirtless, but he always pictures Grantaire shirtless because _why the hell not_ – and maybe this is one of the few occasions where Grantaire doesn’t hide what he wants to say behind witty comebacks and lingering glances. It hurts Enjolras, in a good way, because he is important enough to Grantaire for him to be honest with Enjolras.

“I don’t have to, but I want to,” Enjolras insists, because he’s making choices now, he’s not just living off the consequences of one he made five years ago, and this is the only choice he can bear to make.

Grantaire is the only one in his life who manages to be challengingly easy.

“You mean a great deal to me, and I’ve gone wrong about expressing this. My friends are like a family to me, and I have responsibilities that I cannot easily give up. I would, however--”

“Do you want me to come over?”

Grantaire’s question comes out of nowhere, and Enjolras freezes for a moment, because _how the fuck did Grantaire manage to read his mind even before Enjolras figured it out hell yes he wants him to come over_.

He might have said that aloud.

Grantaire’s laughter is easy and teasing, and Enjolras resists the urge to cross his arms in front of his chest and blush like a five-year-old.

“It’s nice to know you’re so enthusiastic about the idea,” Grantaire quips. “Care to tell me where you live?”

It’s a mess in his head where panic goes _you shouldn’t_ and years of practicing the belief that he could be dead or behind bars the next day says _fuck everything_. He closes his eyes and wills his lungs into calm ebbing and flowing. It still feels like he’s dying a little bit either way.

“You can’t miss it,” he says, “It’s this really big house right at the end of Patricia Avenue. I’ll be waiting outside.”

He still hears Grantaire’s laughter minutes after he hung up.

—Ψ—

“Do you seriously live here.”

“It’s not the way it looks.”

“What, you mean you’re not a twenty-five year old banker dude with this huge-ass amount of money that he spends on a really pretentious villa in the better part of town?” Grantaire looks at him with dawn in his eyes, and the sun is still very far from going up but Enjolras already feels warm and fuzzy inside.

“I’m twenty-six.”

“That doesn’t make this better.”

Grantaire points at the house, and then they both just sort of stand there, Enjolras crossing his arms in front of his chest, staring at the house.

So okay, it’s a fucking villa, they bought it two years ago when it became clear that if they wanted to keep doing this they would need a base to operate from, and thus the Musain was born from Combeferre’s plans and Feuilly’s skills and Bahorel’s hands, and within the year they’d built this huge house tailored perfectly to their needs and demands. Joly has enough space for his medical equipment, even though operating a praxis from their basement is probably at least a bit illegal, and the whole ground floor has been transformed into one giant studio for Feuilly to built life-sized models of bank vaults and corridor labyrinths until Enjolras and the others can navigate them blindly. Combeferre got the study he’d always wanted, even though he’d try to turn Enjolras down when he suggested it, and Enjolras got a room to himself, which is all he can ever remember wanting, except for the dismantling of a corrupt system that holds down the poor and oppressed of course. Jehan doesn’t live with them, at least not much, because he actually has a life outside of robbing banks and illegally acquiring money, one he takes great care to maintain. Courfeyrac has a room, but he still spends a large amount of his time down in San Francisco where he picked up Combeferre and Enjolras. He’s probably maintaining three lives at the same time. Enjolras doesn’t envy him.

“It’s safer than giving your money to the bank,” Enjolras offers, and Grantaire shrugs and replies, “True.”

They head inside.

The house has several entrances, and Enjolras has never been more glad for this. It means he doesn’t run the risk of accidentally waking up one of his friends as he and Grantaire climb the stairs to the door that leads to his room, and he can stop and just stare at Grantaire whenever he wants – that is, until Grantaire nudges him onwards with a smile and a kiss to his lips and it’s all ridiculously sweet, but Enjolras’ heart is also beating frantically, the fear is still there.

He closes the door behind them, and then turns to look at Grantaire.

He doesn’t know what he wants. He just knows he wants Grantaire.

“So?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras moves to sit on the bed cross-legged, looking up at Grantaire.

“What did you lure me here for at this ungodly hour, Monsieur Enjolras?”

Enjolras snorts, and some of the tension bleeds away, even though he is still on edge and there is a folder burning at the back of his mind, but Grantaire is here and to be honest, at the moment he is the only thing that Enjolras can believe is real.

“I didn’t lure you here. You asked to come,” he replies defensively, Grantaire is better at flirting and teasing, and Enjolras can’t let himself admit that he enjoys this game, too.

“Oh yes, you’re completely innocent...” Grantaire grins widely, “You’re just the poor, beautiful young boy who can’t resist opening the door when I invite myself...”

“I’m twenty-six.”

“You’ve said that before, yes.” Grantaire moves closer to him, looming over Enjolras with this impossible, teasing smile fixed on his face. “I’m twenty-eight. Since you haven’t been asking.”

Enjolras shakes his head, and he can’t resist laughing, and a part of his mind still wonders if he should be more quiet because they’re still not alone in this house, but he really doesn’t care. He’s got Grantaire here.

Grantaire, who moves to straddle him, his eyes fixed on Enjolras and body moving with a single-minded intent – to touch as much of Enjolras as possible while still leaving him hanging on the edge and wanting more – and, okay, yeah, Enjolras is very onboard with that, he’d forgotten how good Grantaire feels nine thousand miles into his personal space, it’s so, so good. He leans in and breathes.

“How did I ever get so lucky to meet you?”

He can feel Grantaire’s smile twist for a split second, as if a thought had crossed his mind he’d rather like to banish. “Maybe you were exceptionally good in a past life.”

“I don’t believe in past lives.”

“Me neither.”

Grantaire pushes him backwards, still looming over Enjolras, and then he has him pinned down the moment Enjolras’ body hits the mattress, and Enjolras’ nerve endings are _singing_ with the weight on top of him. He is a six-digit-combination lock giving in, steel bolts sliding open under Grantaire, _for_ Grantaire. Grantaire seems breathless and gleeful at the same time, as far as Enjolras can tell, before he ducks his head down and starts sucking at Enjolras’ neck, hot mouth and sharp teeth and always the maddening _weight_ of Grantaire’s closeness over him.

“God, I’ve been thinking about this,” Enjolras groans when Grantaire bites down on his neck, and then groans when he can feel Grantaire’s smug smile against his skin.

“What part of it?”

Enjolras does not have a good answer at least not one that won’t make him sound like the complete sappy creep he is by saying _I want to crawl under your skin and live there_ , so he just grabs a handful of Grantaire’s hair and yanks him upwards to kiss him again and he is still breathless with Grantaire over him and now Grantaire’s mouth and it feels like the air has been knocked out of his lungs and he is suffocating, until Grantaire runs a hand up his left side to place it gently over Enjolras’ heart. Enjolras’ world stills.

“What _part_ of it?”

Grantaire is being smug again, and this is _ridiculous_ , he robs banks for a living and talks down security guards and police officers without flinching, but Grantaire has him and Grantaire keeps him exactly where he wants him. Enjolras takes a hold of the hand over his heart.

“Your lips, for once,” he says, and Grantaire starts to kiss down his neck, making Enjolras shiver because if Grantaire’s mouth is one thing, it’s _suggestive_.

“Your hair,” he says and cards his fingers through Grantaire’s curls. His head is still moving downwards.

“Your hands,” he whispers, he whispers and lets go of Grantaire’s hand over his heart, and Grantaire fucking _smirks_ against his skin, because he knows what Enjolras expects him to do and so he takes his sweet time contemplating whether he should oblige or not while teasing Enjolras in the most _maddening_ ways possible.

Enjolras is that short from blowing up and he doesn’t even _do_ explosives, they’re loud and disruptive and _not graceful_ except suddenly there’s a whole symphony of fires in Enjolras’ head because Grantaire’s mouth is back on his and he wants to fucking die. He’s on fire, he’s exploding, he’s fucking _moaning_ into Grantaire’s mouth because _oh how very convenient_ Grantaire decided to finally get his hand down Enjolras’ trousers. Enjolras is convinced he would fall apart if it weren’t for Grantaire’s firm grip on him. Or maybe Grantaire has almost succeeded in completely destroying him. Who knows.

He bucks up into Grantaire’s hand, abandons his dignity – _what does he need his dignity for, he’s got Grantaire right here_ – and bites down on Grantaire’s lower lip when Grantaire moves his touch back to light and teasing. Feeling Grantaire shudder over him has to be among the top ten things that Enjolras has ever lived to see.

There are intense emotions, and then there’s _Grantaire_.

He tries to get his breathing back under control.

“Fuck, Grantaire...”

Grantaire’s face is pressed up against the crook of his neck. “You know, I’ve been thinking about this, too. But it didn’t even come close...”

He moves his hand just _so_ , and Enjolras can’t help the whimper that escapes his lips, and suddenly he doesn’t think about ominous plans and the danger of discovery anymore. Grantaire is the only thing that’s real.

“If you don’t get a move on, I’m going to resort to more drastic measures,” he threatens, somewhat undermined by the fact that his breathing is still rough and uneven, and Grantaire smirks again.

“What, have you got a gun in your nightstand?”

He laughs at Enjolras’ shocked expression. “Come on, as if I’d really believe that.”

Enjolras doesn’t tell him that there is, in fact, a gun in the nightstand.

“Take your clothes off,” he says instead. He can’t get much further than voicing his most imminent desires, not with Grantaire’s hands setting every inch of his skin on fire, and this is the kind of fire that doesn’t hurt, though his hands still tingle with the memory of the folder’s weight, why does he have to think of that now, he just wants to forget.

“Bossy, are we?” Grantaire laughs, and how did Enjolras forget that Grantaire is still hovering over him, he certainly can’t forget when Grantaire presses down a bit more and his weight is just heavy enough to make Enjolras aware of how frantic his breathing is coming out. He doesn’t feel particularly bossy anymore.

Grantaire purses his lips with a contemplating frown and then lets go of Enjolras’ cock, instead sitting up and helping Enjolras to do the same. He still keeps him quite close, though, and Enjolras is _very_ thankful for that, because it feels like he’s gravitating towards Grantaire in any case.

Grantaire smiles and reaches for the hem of Enjolras’ shirt, pulling it off slowly and then tossing it aside while eyeing Enjolras thoroughly.

“I forgot about your marble skin,” he mutters, and Enjolras wants to shake his head and object that he’s not just pretty stone, that this is the mistake that everybody makes, but Grantaire doesn’t give him time to object, he pulls off his own shirt and kisses Enjolras again, and everything is lost in the sensation of warm skin on skin and Grantaire stealing every last bit of air left in his lungs.

It’s deathly, and terrifyingly so.

Grantaire slowly guides Enjolras to lie back again, kissing him all the while, and his hands do not stay idle while Enjolras tries to compose at least one coherent thought, he starts pulling down Enjolras’ trousers until they’re wrapped around his knees together with his boxers and then he pulls away from Enjolras’ lips and Enjolras can breathe again, but only for a second, because _oh fuck he should have known_.

He moans as Grantaire wraps his mouth around Enjolras’ cock, and it feels like he’s jelly all of a sudden, he can’t move, he can only stare at Grantaire wide-eyed and with an almost painful desire burning in his chest, he’s never been patient and this is the worst form of torture, Grantaire swallows him down further and Enjolras feels like he’s just getting lost in the sensations, like he doesn’t have to be anybody ever again as long as he has Grantaire.

Okay, he’s going to embarrass himself. Very quickly so, if he doesn’t stop Grantaire.

“Grantaire, please, I’m...”

Grantaire does indeed pull off, but Enjolras can see from his smile that he’s nowhere close to stopping. He just reaches for Enjolras hand, rubbing a finger over the pulse point on his wrist and sighing _shhh I’ve got you_ into his skin.

“You’ve been on edge the entire time. Just let me trip you over.”

And that’s it, that’s all the warning Enjolras gets before Grantaire swallows him down _again_ and this will never stop leaving his mind like a blank wall, will it, he just needs more of Grantaire. Grantaire is giving him more, and he just doesn’t let go of Enjolras’ hand.

“Why do I deserve you what did I ever do, fuck, Grantaire, you’re not supposed to be so... so...” He wants to scream and never stop talking and he doesn’t even know what he’s saying, he loses track with Grantaire’s wet mouth around him, he’s going to come, fuck, “ _Grantaire_.”

He’s canting his hips upwards as he comes, Grantaire holding his hand and swallowing the entire way through, Enjolras is so sensitive he can’t do anything but whine quietly as Grantaire pulls off and then pull him closer because it’s even more painful not to be near Grantaire.

Grantaire’s erection is painfully obvious through the fabric of his trousers.

Now it’s Enjolras’ turn to smirk.

“Something you want?”

He doesn’t sound quite as smug as he’d hoped to sound, though, mostly because he’s still blissed out and his brain’s empty and Grantaire has always been the more eloquent one when it comes to teasing, really.

Grantaire looks down at him with complete honesty on his face. “Okay, fuck...” He runs a hand over his face and Enjolras, to his amusement, discovers that Grantaire is turning slightly red on his cheeks.

“How do you want this? I mean, I could probably just jerk of staring at you, have you looked into a mirror lately, you should see yourself, really, you look... _sinful_ , or I could--”

For once, Enjolras is very, very clear about what he wants.

“Fuck me.”

Grantaire stops babbling, and he looks at Enjolras like he’s an angel or something otherworldly. He certainly doesn’t seem to be believing Enjolras is real. Enjolras has to kiss him again.

“Get a move on and fuck me.”

Grantaire nods, seemingly slightly breathless. “Okay, where’s your...”

Enjolras sits up, which is a tremendous effort considering his entire body still feels boneless and heavy and weightless at the same time, but he manages to open the drawer of his nightstand – not the drawer with the gun, mind you, he is very concerned about safety – and find a bottle of lube and a condom. Grantaire takes them from him and kisses him again, an insistent pressing of mouths that guides Enjolras to lie back on the bed and then seems to devour him whole, Enjolras can only open up under Grantaire.

Grantaire slicks up a finger, and he presses up against Enjolras and he is still sensitive but in a good way, he wants to feel Grantaire for days, weeks, months, a year, he doesn’t have a problem, most certainly not. Grantaire’s lips press more fiercely against his, and his finger presses inside carefully.

Enjolras makes a little surprised noise, a breathless huff, mostly because Grantaire is still kissing him like he wants to suffocate and breathe new life into him at the same time, and he can feel a shudder go through his whole body, he is trembling, but Grantaire is still holding him together.

His hips rise up on their own accord to meet Grantaire, and his head falls back and Grantaire follows the line of his neck to find every spot that makes him lose his mind a bit more. He has already forgotten how it feels to exist anywhere else but in Grantaire’s arms.

“Please, Grantaire...” he mutters, and Grantaire, ever the caring, ever the knowing one, draws out and adds a second finger, maddeningly, sweetly careful, and he’s muttering quiet words into Enjolras skin that he can’t hear, he can only feel the warmth of Grantaire’s breath and the weight of his body and the anchor of his hands. His eyes fall closed. It feels like he’s getting lost in the sensations.

“Look at me,” Grantaire demands quietly, somewhere near his ear, and Enjolras opens his eyes and turns his head to the side to find Grantaire staring back at him, his eyes wide open and dark and _oh fuck_ he presses in a third finger and still maintains a completely stern expression and Enjolras can only imagine how he appears looking back, his mouth wide open and panting, eyes disbelieving and pleading.

“Grantaire...”

Grantaire bites his lip to keep a smile from spreading over his face, he looks like he’s so satisfied with how he’s playing Enjolras, and he should be, because Enjolras hadn’t even know it could take him this little time to grow hard again, _fuck_ , Grantaire is some kind of sex god, a very evil sex god.

“You might want to consider fucking me right about now.”

Grantaire draws in a sharp breath, Enjolras can feel him inhaling against his chest and then he removes his fingers completely and Enjolras whines when he’s also deprived of Grantaire’s body in close proximity to his, but he knows that he will be whole anytime soon now, he doesn’t have to worry, Grantaire is telling him.

He’s been looking at the ceiling trying to get his breathing back under control, and he can hear Grantaire tearing open the condom wrapper, and then Grantaire takes a hold of his jaw and makes him look back at him as he lines himself up to Enjolras’ entrance and pushes inside and Grantaire’s mouth falls open in a quiet _oh_ and it’s the most beautiful thing Enjolras has ever seen.

He stays like this until Enjolras raises his hips a bit and something flares on Grantaire’s face, Enjolras knows that expression, he’s seen it on his own face as a reflection in unlocked steel doors, except Grantaire is making him feel more alive than he’s ever felt before, he has to close his eyes and physically remind himself that he does indeed still need air, and it’s hard with Grantaire moving over him like he’s never going to do anything else in his life.

“You’re so perfect for me,” Grantaire mutters into Enjolras’ skin, “I don’t even know why, you’re just perfect and you’re everything and...”

He trails off, maybe he’s losing himself just as Enjolras is, it’s certainly a possibility, and then he takes a hold of Enjolras’ cock and starts stroking him again and Enjolras keens because it’s too much of Grantaire and still not enough and Grantaire is biting down on his neck, he is inside him, around him, everywhere, and Enjolras is coming with a chocked off sob, and Grantaire strokes him through it and keeps moving his hips and then Enjolras can feel him shudder as well, burying his face in Enjolras’ neck.

They stay like this for a moment, frozen, like they’ve been knocked out of their respective time streams by the other and can only hold on to each other now.

Then Grantaire pulls out and removes the condom and actually takes the pain to get up and find Enjolras’ bin to dispose of it, Enjolras admires his politeness.

“Do you have towels somewhere?”

“There are wet wipes on the desk,” Enjolras replies, and he cannot, for the life of him, look up to point Grantaire in the right direction. He is just too exhausted.

Grantaire comes back, and he kisses Enjolras lightly on the lips and wipes him clean and then he snuggles up against him. Enjolras reaches for the covers and manages to somewhat drape them over the two of them, even though one of his feet is sticking out and Grantaire probably isn’t entirely covered.

“You don’t have to be anywhere tomorrow, do you?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras just shakes his head and pulls Grantaire closer with a single-minded determination. He finds that Grantaire’s curls are a wonderful place to bury his face in.

“Good,” Grantaire replies and closes his eyes, and they fall asleep in each other’s arms.

—Ψ—

Grantaire is still sleeping in his bed when Enjolras works up the courage to look at the folder the next morning. His breathing rhythm falters again, this time in the bad way, so he focuses on Grantaire’s breathing, and when his hands start shaking, he curls them around the folder and doesn’t look away from Grantaire.

He needs to do this, he tells himself.

Something for himself, something for his family.

He’s wearing his boxers and Grantaire’s t-shirt, and he’s sitting at his desk with his knees drawn up to his chest. Curling up with Grantaire and the folder would be too risky, but he longs for closeness and protection and Grantaire.

The folder itself isn’t very spectacular.

Most security companies operate – within their parameters – in a very standardised way, and after a while they start bleeding into one another. Enjolras has learnt to scan their programs quickly, figure out their modus operandi and then strike where they’re habitually the weakest.

It’s just the name that keeps popping up.

At first it’s just a slight tremor in his hands, but soon his body starts trembling, too, and he’s shaking and he can’t hold the folder steady, he can’t read anymore –

He looks back at Grantaire. He takes a deep breath.

Grantaire looks younger in his sleep, but that mostly seems to be the case with people. Enjolras is more fascinated with the way his curls seem to want to devour his entire head as if they are a living thing, or the way Grantaire’s nose scrunches up when he shifts in his sleep. Enjolras’ hands still, and he looks back at the folder.

This is useless, he tells himself. He already knows where to strike. He just doesn’t want to.

On the bed, Grantaire yawns and stretches and Enjolras puts the folder aside before questions can arise. He smiles at Grantaire, who is still naked, and then walks back to the bed to place a good-morning-kiss on Grantaire’s lips.

“I was right,” Grantaire mumbled, “Your mattress _is_ softer than a baby’s ass.”

Enjolras chuckles. “Did you sleep well?”

“I slept fucking fantastic,” Grantaire replies, “But mind-blowing orgasms will do that to you.”

Enjolras has a theory that he is in love with the way he can make Enjolras blush, and so he smiles and looks down and tries not to be embarrassed about the fact that he’s been prone to blush ever since Grantaire came into his life.

“I would ask about breakfast in bed...” Grantaire says, “But I kind of have to go home and take a shower before my shift begins at twelve. Can you forgive me?”

“Barely,” Enjolras replies, sighing dramatically, “We could take a shower together.”

Grantaire glances at the clock on Enjolras nightstand, and Enjolras sighs inwardly, this is probably only fair since he had to cut their date short.

“I’m already late...” Grantaire says, and Enjolras nods understandingly. He doesn’t want to let Grantaire go, but he also needs to do things and work and be a functioning part of this little family he’s neglected for so long.

“It’s okay,” he says, “I will see you soon.”

Grantaire kisses him again, and it’s slow and warm and a promise that couldn’t be more real even if it had been spoken and sealed with blood, and then he gets dressed and Enjolras shows him the way back outside and waves him goodbye as Grantaire rides off on his motorbike.

Combeferre is waiting for him as he comes back inside.

—Ψ—

“I’ve got our next target sorted out,” he says when Enjolras comes back inside, and he doesn’t even ask what Enjolras was doing outside or why he’s wearing this t-shirt he’s never worn before. It’s stuffy in his bedroom, Enjolras only just realises, but Combeferre doesn’t seem bothered. He’s dressed impeccably, with another folder sitting in his lap, and he’s the opposite of Enjolras when he finishes a plan – Enjolras is a relentless force driving forward, Combeferre is a magnet pulling things his way.

Enjolras sits down on his bed, facing Combeferre on the chair with the most serious expression he can muster. He still feels torn, because the memory of Grantaire is still etched into his skin, while on the other hand the familiar itch of having a target begins to claw at him and he doesn’t know where to look first.

“Tell me about it.”

“I’ve been talking to Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says, “And we agree that the casino you were looking at is the perfect location for our next coup.”

“No,” Enjolras says, and he instantly regrets not having a verbal filter. It’s the only thing on his mind, he cannot do this one, very simple thing.

“Is this about the thing with your parents?” Combeferre asks, and he still goes about this logically, methodically, and Enjolras wants to scream because he does not have a logical explanation.

“This has got nothing to do with my parents.”

Combeferre nods. “What is your problem, then?”

_What is your problem, if it’s not the first confrontation you’ve had with your past in five years, what is your problem if it’s not the name on that folder and the fact that you can’t escape them._

“Why that casino?” Enjolras asks. “You could have chosen any random target, why the sudden rush for a new gig? We’re not short of money, Combeferre.”

 _Please help me understand_.

Combeferre sighs and leans back in his seat. “Enjolras...” Whatever he is about to says seems to physically pain him. “You have any right to privacy, but please don’t take me for a fool and pretend you never brought that guy home.”

Yeah, okay, he really should have known.

Enjolras’ shoulders sag, and suddenly all the tension of the last days bleeds out of him and leaves him hollow and empty and disappointed – at himself.

“You’re right,” he says, “I should have told you.”

Combeferre sighs and shakes his head. “Is that why you don’t want to go at the casino?”

Enjolras looks up, because this one thing he will not allow, he’s tried so hard, and Combeferre doesn’t understand. “I’ve been putting you guys first the entire time. I just want a little bit to myself, is that too much to ask?”

“You’ve been...?” Combeferre huffs, his whole body moving in disbelief. “Enjolras, you’ve been barely responsive in the last week!”

“Why the casino, Combeferre?” Enjolras asks, “Why now?”

It feels like revenge, even though he knows it’s illogical. Combeferre wouldn’t take revenge like that, he’s not the type of person to destroy another one’s happiness out of envy. It’s not like Combeferre at all.

Combeferre looks resigned. “You know, we made a promise when we took those three million five years ago.”

Enjolras just stares back. He can’t follow. He feels like he lost, and he feels like he’s being destroyed for a mistake he didn’t even know he made. There’s inevitability hanging heavily in the stuffy air of the room, and Enjolras is suffocating again.

“We’re not taking money just for the sake of taking, Enjolras!” Combeferre says. “How many times in the last two years have you helped Courfeyrac with putting the money somewhere instead of just marching into a bank and taking it?”

Enjolras doesn’t have an answer. He’s been doing the right thing all that time, he knows it. He just doesn’t know where that conviction comes from all of a sudden.

“We’ve been doing good things,” he says hollowly.

“You wouldn’t know that,” Combeferre says, “And I can count projects we successfully funded with our money on one hand. That’s why I picked the casino.”

He points at the folder, and he is still so very Combeferre that it hurts Enjolras, all logic and cold conviction and convincing and the best friend Enjolras has ever had.

“Because I god tired of our money ending up hauled up in some black hole, because I care about more than just stealing and taking from the rich, I care about giving, too. And so I found people who needed money, and I approached them, and we can wash the money and have it with them in the next two weeks, but it needs to go fast.”

“I care about giving, too,” Enjolras says weakly.

“Then you’re onboard with our plan?” Combeferre asks.

“I can’t...” It’s hard to put into words what he is thinking, everything is rushing past him so fast and everything is tearing at him. “He trusts me, too.”

Combeferre runs a hand through his hair in exasperation. “You’re the posterboy of a good man gone wrong!”

“Gone wrong?”

Enjolras doesn’t even know what to say anymore, they’re talking about two different things, and this is Combeferre, they’re not supposed to be hurting each other, they’re the only ones they can really count on, it’s only ever been them.

Enjolras has never been one for crying. He’s only ever known the urge to scream.

“Look at yourself. You rob banks for _the greater good_ , but you don’t even care where the money goes. You pick up some stranger when you’re supposed to scan locations and fuck him and then you invite him to our house regardless of the security risk that poses. What am I supposed to think?”

Combeferre looks honestly heartbroken.

 _It’s not like that_ , Enjolras wants to say.

“I didn’t even know we were scanning locations because you didn’t tell me anything! You’ve been all over the place with your big mysterious plan but maybe I would have actively supported it if you had told me in advance!” Enjolras is fuming, because this is injustice in its purest form, why can’t Combeferre understand he’s just trying to do the best for everyone. “And Grantaire isn’t a security risk, Combeferre. I trust him.”

Combeferre sighs, and pushes his glasses back on his nose. Something is off.

And then Combeferre looks him in the eye, and Enjolras knows what’s coming because he’s always known Combeferre’s thoughts just a split second before he voices them, and he wills his heart to be steel but it’s still warm and fragile and frightened and he stands there all alone amidst the wreck he made.

“Enjolras, he’s with the FBI.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr under buveurgrantaire.


End file.
